


The Road to Santiago/Come and Be Welcome

by Ardatli



Series: The Dale Cycle [1]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Billy has powers, Crusaders!AU, F/M, Heather Dale, Historical AU, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, but let's be real, but no-one else does, so we know no good can come of this, song-related vignettes, that we know of, there will be moments that are sweet and happy, this is not fluff, this is the Fourth Crusade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Oh, I wondered what they shared that made such disparate men beloved<br/>As they walked along the road to Santiago?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road to Santiago

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of a multi-story cycle, set in and around the Fourth Crusade (1201 - 1204 CE). I’ll probably write and post them in order, but as this is intended as a mood break from Profs!AU, I have no set schedule as to when. Each one will be reasonably self-contained, and not end on extreme cliffhangers.
> 
> Each story in this cycle is inspired by (some more loosely than others) a particular song from Canadian folk singer/songwriter [Heather Dale](http://heatherdale.com). She is _phenomenal_ , and I strongly recommend you check her out. She has a free album available on her website ([“Perpetual Gift” - download it here!](http://heatherdale.com/perpetual-gift)), and I think pretty much all of her songs are on YouTube in some form or another. I’ll link to particular ones as I go.
> 
> This is a medieval AU, and has been researched-within-reason. That is to say, I know quite a bit about the middle ages and the Crusades, I’ve done the reading on the basics of this particular Crusade and figured out how to fit these guys in, and hopefully the environment will ring true. If I’ve gotten some details wrong I beg for your forgiveness and indulgence. 
> 
> While it’s highly unlikely that everyone would be able to communicate with everybody in the real world, I’ve chosen to give all the main characters a language in common (French, here rendered as English) in order to make the story about the characters rather than strict historical veracity. Please don’t stone me.
> 
> That being said, this series will likely contain language that is period-appropriate but distressing, specifically toward non-Christians, women and homosexual behaviour. Needless to say, as a queer Jewish woman, these are absolutely not my own personal views.
> 
> If anti-semitic (to both Jews and other semites), misogynist and homophobic language in specific context, and/or internalized period-appropriate homophobia distress you, be aware that all of the above may well appear here. I’ve toned it down from the period rhetoric for my own comfort levels, but.
> 
> Oh my god, is this author’s note long enough?
> 
> (Apparently not. More at the end.)
> 
> Onward.
> 
>  
> 
> Part One is inspired by [The Road to Santiago](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5y2835AXs9w), by Heather Dale.
> 
> Betaed by the amazing feebleapb and xandertheundead. All remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

_Oh, I wondered what they shared that made such disparate men beloved_

_As they walked along the road to Santiago?_

 

**August, 1201. The south of France.**

 

“You have no proof that this ‘Magda’ of yours even exists.”

William ignored his brother. He let the familiar words of argument wash over and around him, a refrain almost soothing in the late summer heat. Sweat stung the backs of his knees and his neck under his coarse wool robe, the broad-brimmed hat keeping off the worst of the sun.  His scrip thumped against his hip in rhythm with his steps, the pewter shrine badges stitched to the bag’s flap jingling in time. The road was a clear one this time, the deep cart-ruts that ran down the centre of the hard-packed earth easily avoided.

“She exists. The legends say that the shrine of the Virgin at Siena has always been tended by a seer, from a family of seers and miracle workers.” He made his usual reply, because Thomas expected it. His walking stick slid in his hand, the wood smooth from use and warm from his skin and the sun. “If even half the stories are true, then one of them will be able to help me.” The gentle buzzing of insects filled in the silence when he stopped speaking.

“They could have chosen a better location for their shrine. We could have been halfway to Compostela by now. Think of it, Will-“ Thomas spread his arms wide, his hand narrowly missing William’s ear as he dodged. “Sand beaches, ripe peaches and figs falling off the trees, warm sun...” and he was off again, treading the well-worn paths of the debate.

 “You’ve had more than enough sun already,” William snorted. “It’s gone to your head.” He leaned away from his brother as Thomas gesticulated wildly once more.

As close as they had always been, twins born of the same womb, this journey of his had brought them closer together yet, every word predictable and action comforting in its sameness. And they had another month and a half to go, the Via Francigena winding before and behind them in equal measure.

William picked uneasily at the red linen cross stitched on to the brown homespun of his pilgrim’s robe, the blazon marking him as part of a faith he didn’t share. The dark blue of Thomas’ hose flashed beneath the hem of his tunic, vestiges of a world they’d left behind.

“Stop fussing with your clothes; anyone would think you didn’t feel comfortable in your holy vows.” Thomas’ voice held a warning and a sneer at the same time, a trick that he seemed to have learned in infancy.

“They’re _not_ comfortable,” William retorted, but he forced his hand to drop, resting uneasily on the leather strap of his scrip. “And I wish there was some other way to pass safely. I always feel like we’re going to be struck down for heretics and liars.” He cast a suspicious glance heavenward, but no lightning came from the clear blue sky. A bird circled lazily overhead, caught an updraft and was gone. Was that a good omen?

Thomas shrugged, unconcerned. He twirled his hat in his hand, the sun shining silver off his hair, still so pale blond that it could pass for white. William had been born the same way, another white-blond twin, twenty minutes after his brother. The only distinction between them had been the caul that had covered William’s face in a translucent shroud.  

William’s hair and eyes had darkened almost immediately, until now, twenty-one years later, the twins were like block-print reversals of each other; mirrored souls. As opposite as they were, one could not exist without the other.

“Then you have three choices, little brother,” Tom suggested, glancing sideways with a sardonic smile.

Fine; let him be cryptic. William could play along. “And what are those?”

Thomas grinned wide, turned on his heel so he was half-walking half-dancing backward along the ridge between the cart-ruts. “Be burned for a heretic, a witch or a sodomite. And if any of those come to pass,” he pointed at William, his eyes laughing, “you’re on your own.”

“Do you _mind_?” The point of fear lanced through him, sharp and bright. William whipped his head around, but no-one was visible, either on the road or in the trees that lined either side. “You can’t just go _saying_ those things.”

Thomas was already gone, restless as ever, jogging ahead to peer around the sharp bend in the road. “There’s a town just ahead,” he reported as he came back, bouncing on his toes, the dust spotted yellow on the dark leather of his well-worn shoes. “What does your precious guidebook say to that? We should stop here,” Thomas decided with a firm nod. “Think of it. They’ll have cheese, fresh bread, good beer – all we’ve got left are apples and water, and that’s beginning to give me gutrot.”

It was dangerous, especially since they were on a quiet section of the Via. They’d not be used to taking in pilgrims like the larger cities, and that meant curiosity. _Where are you from? Where are you going? Tell us about your travels._ Too many chances to slip and make a mistake.

“It would be better to keep going,” William said. “We’ve no money to pay for all your cheese and beer, and the Codex said that the next hospice is no more than two more hours’ walk. We can be there by nightfall easily.”

“Damn your all-holy book,” Thomas cursed with casual ease. “Why eat pilgrims’ alms and sleep on boards when we can spend the night in a real bed if we play this properly? We go in, you work a miracle, we get a chance to shake off the road dust for the night and sleep on a mattress away from the rats. It’s simple.” He clapped William companionably on the shoulder. As if things were that easy.

“I think taking advantage of honest townsfolk defeats the purpose of a pilgrimage,” William replied dryly. His blood chilled a little at the thought of ‘working a miracle,’ as he so casually put it.

It wasn’t as though he could control it the way Thomas wanted him to. The power surged under his skin at the thought, hungered to be released. It bubbled and sparked under his skin sometimes, seemed like a living thing as it coiled through his dreams.

What would it do if he gave in one day, let go all his control and simply let it ... out? The idea sent chills through him as much as it did fire, the longing and fear twined together and inseparable.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not real pilgrims, isn’t it?” Thomas grabbed him by the hand and laced his fingers between Will’s as he pulled him along, tight and secure. The gloom that had begun to settle over the world lifted, the contact grounding him back down to the earth, connecting him to something solid and real.

Tom would never let him fall.

\--

Tom would, however, manage to introduce him as a ‘holy man’ within five minutes of their arrival, and in less than an hour he found himself at a child’s bedside, her face flushed red with fever where she lay on the straw-ticked pallet. Her parents stood in the door, the farmer’s face deeply lined with suspicion and his wife’s hands shaking. The wet cloth she had been using to salve her daughter’s forehead lay forgotten on the sideboard. The late afternoon sun slanted brokenly through cracks in the closed shutters, dust motes dancing in the slivers of light. It highlighted rather than relieved the oppressive stillness of the sickroom.

He couldn’t do this. What if something went wrong? She was a tiny little mite, maybe six years old. All he could see when he looked down was Jacob, his brow beaded with sweat and his eyes dark with fear, hands trembling between Mother’s as the fever had taken him. This little one was blonde, not dark, a girl and not a boy, but the rest of it was so very familiar.

His magic had burst forth for Jacob as well, but in the end it hadn’t mattered.

He couldn’t do this.

Tom laid a hand on William’s shoulder, squeezed it firmly. “You can,” he murmured. “Remember what Samson said. It’s not you. It’s God working through you.”

It would have helped more if he thought Thomas believed a word of it.

William took a breath. The second one came easier on the heels of the first, and then the third unlocked the knot sitting in the centre of his chest. He nodded.

He crossed himself because it was what they expected to see, a gesture that was as meaningless as all the Latin incantations he’d memorized years ago.

The girl’s chest heaved as he pressed his palms down against her sweat-drenched body, the linen of her shift stuck to her fever-wracked form. He sank deep into himself where his curse ran and sparked and licked at his bones, the words of his prayers silent on his moving lips.

-         _Mi Sheberakh Avoteinu: Avraham, Yitzhak, v'Yaakov / May the Holy Blessed One overflow with compassion / I want her to heal. IwanthertohealIwant-_

 

Blue light flared behind and before his eyes, fire consuming his bones and the world shattered and reformed.

There was a gasp, not his own, and when he opened his eyes the girl was looking back up at him with an expression of surprise and delight. Her forehead was still beaded with sweat but her eyes were clear, the pink fading from her cheeks even as they watched. She smiled and Tom let out a breath that he would never admit he had been holding and the farmer and his wife were alight with joy.

For a moment before the exhaustion claimed him it seemed that he was not cursed at all, but blessed.

\--

There was an inn in the town, amazingly enough, a small house at one end of the small collections of buildings that made up the town. Thomas had ‘the miracle man’ ensconced in a chair in the common room in short order. William slumped in his corner, hood pulled low over his brow to block the worst of the light. It would take a little time for the strength to return to his limbs and the bee-buzzing to fade from his mind. Would that be something the shrine-maid could help him overcome?

And did he _want_ to overcome the problems, or be rid of his curse altogether and have a vague chance at a normal life?

“And what sins have _you_ committed, pilgrim, to put you on the road seeking an indulgence?” The dark-haired daughter of the innkeeper leaned over the bar as she spoke to Thomas, her tunic laced snug across her full chest. She was pretty enough, if you cared for that sort of thing, and Thomas obviously did. William folded his arms and sank lower in his chair.

“I am as pure and innocent as a newborn,” Thomas teased her back, resting his elbows on the bar and leaning in himself. “My vows were purely for practical reasons.”

“Have you not taken the cross, then?” She eyed him with curiosity and sparked interest.

“I? No, certainly not. I’ve taken up the robe and staff to accompany my brother. He travels to a shrine in the east and I’ve come along to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself along the way. As you can see, he needs all the help that he can find.”

She laughed, the tinkling of bells. William rolled his eyes beneath the folds of his hood.

Thomas’ voice was sharper when he replied, a shift only William would notice. He shifted in his chair a little and tried not to look as though he were listening. “Why do you ask?”

“Only because there is a camp of them not far from here; father thought you might be en route to join their march.” She slid a pair of mugs across the bar and Thomas wrapped his hands around one to take a deep draught.

“How far?” He asked, setting down the mug and wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“About ten miles; Jehan brought the news this morning. I expect they’ll be further on their way by tomorrow. Perhaps their company plans to pass by Siena? Surely it will be safer to travel with many than with two. They say the roads in Burgundy are thick with bandits who prey upon the unwary.”

A dark curl had slipped loose from under the girl’s linen cap; Thomas reached out to tangle it between two fingers. She glanced at the door, but didn’t pull away. “Don’t worry about our safety; we’ve skill enough between us to take on any comers.”

“Now there’s a fair offer-“ Her voice dropped and William stopped paying attention.

Crusaders on the road; that could mean anything from twenty riders and squires up to an encampment of twenty thousand, and all of them fired with zealotry and battle-lust. England had been spared the worst, but everyone had heard the stories. The flashing of stone-sharpened steel and the bludgeoning of stones; synagogues and homes set to the torch; the women – _god, the women, and girls barely old enough to understand_ – the pounding of horses’ hooves and shouts of ‘Christ-killers’ that pierced the blackness of night and left nothing but bleeding corpses and ash behind.

Crusaders were to be avoided at all costs.

And Thomas was still flirting. “Don’t tip your eyes his way, fair one; my brother’s taken orders and will have no woman’s touch. But I have not.”

_Oh, for the love of-_

She didn’t seem terribly put out by his implications, and when William glanced up in vague disdain, she was turning for the stairs with a crooked finger in beckon.

“Then come, fair pilgrim; let _us_ pray…”

\--

The sun had hit the horizon by the time the barmaid reappeared at her post and William was thoroughly fed up with the press of eyes upon him, the endless circling around of the curious in the common room. And if he had to continue to feign sleep or invent one more excuse as to why he could neither cure a bunion nor ensure a good dry autumn, he was going to find the nearest well and pitch Thomas down it.

He made his fast excuses and headed for their room, but not before the townsfolk had extracted a promise from him to bless their fields before they left the next morning. It couldn’t do any harm to say a prayer, he supposed; it would give them hope, and hope was a precious commodity in times like this.

Thomas was sitting on the bed retying the points of his hose when William let the door swing closed behind him. William glared at him, more for the principle of the thing than anything else; Tom’s self-satisfied smile did not slip an iota.

“At least tell me we can come back this way without finding a surprise next year?” William asked, dropping to sit beside his brother on the bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest, an old habit, and Thomas snickered as he stood.

“There are ways to please a fair lady without running that sort of risk, brother dear. If I thought you’d any interest in learning, I’d be happy to explain…”

“Go to hell.” William groaned without venom, the feel of the bed beneath him a seduction he couldn’t resist. He dropped his staff and hat, flopped backward with a low and thorough groan. The ends of the straw ticking poked him through the thin bedding and his robe, but it gave way beneath his body and the low droning ache in his muscles relaxed in glorious relief.

“Leave me some space, brat,” Thomas ordered from the other side of the room, his robe and shirt loose around his waist as he washed in the basin. William muttered, too tired now to link together words in an order that made much sense.

The last thing he felt before darkness rose up to claim him was the mattress settling beside him under Tom’s weight. _Safe here. Sleep now._

\--

Rain had not been in the sky when they left the town in the morning, but it had found them now. The clouds had covered the sky by mid-afternoon, and by the time the sun sank toward the horizon the road had become a muddy cesspool, every step taking twice the effort that it should. The cold water beat down upon them, running in rivulets off the brims of their hats and pooling the folds of their robes, splashing up their legs and soaking through even the tough boot leather.

“This is your fault, somehow,” Thomas moaned as he trudged through the mud, dashing water from his face and peering into the storm-darkened gloom.

“It’s not my fault,” William retorted. The crossroads couldn’t be that far ahead; it was supposed to be eight miles from the town, and while they’d been slowed by the rain it couldn’t have been by that much. The crossroads, and there would be a sign to show them the way to turn, and there was a chapel only a little ways further that would give them shelter for the night. “I’ve never been able to bring down a storm, you know that.”

“What I know is that you blessed their fields, and now it’s raining for the first time in weeks. Your fault.”

“That makes no sense,” William shot back, and there – the sign for the crossroads loomed out of the darkness. Was he imagining things or was the rain letting up? He paused, lifted his face to the sky for a moment to test. Yes; the dark clouds were moving on, scuttling out of the way in the wind, and the hard rain faded to a gentler sprinkle.

“Whatever you just did,” Thomas snorted, “keep doing it.”

“I keep telling you, it doesn’t work that way.”

The crossroads was right before them, and William’s heart lifted at the sight. Now to find the sign that marked the Via, and they would be on their way to shelter and possibly a chance to dry their clothes and eat something. Things were improving markedly already.

“Is this the sign?” Thomas crouched at the edge of the road, poking at something in the ditch there. A post lay half-covered in the small tree that had fallen across it, both cracked and the marker pointing haphazardly into the woods. “Any idea which way it was supposed to go?”

Damnation! William gnawed on his lip as he looked down one way, and then the other; the gathering darkness made it difficult to tell. One way led to the chapel, the other – where?

There was a glow low on the horizon off to the right; would that be torches in the window of the chapel? Either way, the light promised fire and fire promised warmth and dry feet, and that was enough to make up his mind. “That way,” William pointed.

“Are you certain?”

“No, but we have to pick something. Unless you want to sleep in the mud tonight.”

“That way it is.”

It took less than a quarter of an hour for William to realize that he had made a very bad, very wrong decision. The light had come from fires, yes, but not torches in a window or a brazier in a great hall. No, it came from a campfire in the middle of a circle of tents, each one with banners hanging beside. The encampment was a riot of colour and cheer, boys barely old enough to be apprenticed running about with armour pieces and polishing rags, with strapping and harnesses, or bashing at each other with wooden swords. If the count of the tethered horses meant anything, there were twenty knights here, perhaps a few more, foot soldiers, squires and followers rounding out the group to nigh-on one hundred.

And all of them bore the cross upon their breasts.

Crusaders.

Thomas, incautious as always, stepped into the light before William could take hold of him, cornered the first man he saw and made his reverences.

“Whose camp is this, good man?”

“Come and be welcome, pilgrim.” The knight eyed them both with a speculative gleam that changed to vague dismissal at their poverty of garb and gear. “We are pledged to the Count of Methingau, young Gregory. He has taken the cross and rides for Venice.”

William swallowed hard against the lump of fear in his throat, even as Thomas moved further into the camp, drawn by the light and warmth of the fire. He grabbed for Tom’s sleeve, drew him close even as curious eyes turned to watch their approach. “We should go, Tom,” he hissed as quietly as he could.

“And sleep in the mud?” Thomas turned his words back on him, and gestured at the sun, now vanishing below the horizon entirely. “I’d rather take my chances with wolves at the fire than wolves in the forest. At least these ones are obliged to offer us shelter, and there’s a chance to get dry.”

The grand tent opened before William could reply. A man strode out, about their age, but wholly unlike any man William had ever seen before.

His hair shone as gold, red reflecting off it from the light cast by the fire and the torches that surrounded the tent. He was clean-shaven, a jaw that could only have been carved from marble by the loving hand of a besotted artist. His surcote was the green of summer, rich and deep, a red cross sewn to the left breast. The gold of his brooch and the chasing on his scabbard marked him as a man of wealth. He held the flap of the tent for a moment and surveyed the camp, everything in the set of his broad shoulders and easy movements suggesting a bearing of confidence and surety that William could only dream about.

He would dream about this man tonight, and tomorrow, and possibly every night thereafter.

William stood transfixed, even as Thomas moved around him and began speaking with the men about the fire. He was still, the steam starting to curl from the bottom of his robe where the heat of the flames dried them, his hair dark and dripping, plastered to his head. And then this man, this golden idol who could only be Count Gregory –

Or perhaps not. The man turned to speak to someone still inside the tent, and bowed his head in reverence. The banners around the great tent were red with a yellow lattice, not green, and _his_ surcote had a golden dragon blazoned on the back. The dragon moved and shimmered in the reflection of the fire, seemed almost to spread its wings and yearn for flight.

It was a distortion of the darkness and William’s own exhaustion; nothing more.

Then the Crusader looked. He looked across the fire and he saw William, and his eyes were _blue._

_Oh._

A jolt surged through William’s body, more powerful than any use of his curse, an energy that wracked and wrecked him and left him utterly dumb.

Later, much later, after tears and blood had been spilled in equal measure and the bodies of good men fertilized the fields of war, he would still remember that moment and swear it was true. That he had heard the words deep within him, clearer than church bells or thought or even the swelling crescendos of his magic.

_I am for you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Being “born in the caul” meant that an infant was born with a piece of the amniotic membrane covering his or her face. In medieval Europe, this was believed to be a good omen, a sign of future greatness, and to grant the infant powers against the forces of evil. The dried caul itself was believed to be an extremely powerful good-luck charm, and a talisman that would protect the bearer from drowning.
> 
> \- The Via Francigena is a set of interlinked roads and highways between Kent, in England, and the city of Rome. Sections of the Via have been used as pilgrimage roads to holy sites of Catholicism since at least the 9th century CE.
> 
> \- Regulations protecting pilgrims grew with the explosions of popularity of the pilgrimage in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Pilgrims wore visibly identifiable marks of their vows – a wool robe and a walking stick, and later on, wide-brimmed hats and pilgrim’s badges from the shrines they’d visited. In return, towns along pilgrimage roads were obliged to provide base levels of hospitality and shelter, pilgrims were exempt from tolls on toll roads, and had various other unique freedoms of passage.
> 
> \- The ‘codex’ is the Codex Calixtinus, a twelfth-century travel guide for those walking on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Book five of this codex listed all the hazards pilgrims were likely to run into on their travels, including which rivers were safest to drink from, where hospices and shrines could be found, and which roads were heaviest with bandit activity.
> 
> \- The shrine of the Virgin at Siena is fictional. Siena is along the Francigena, but I made up the specific church. As far as I know, anyway!
> 
> \- The closest date I’ve been able to find for the development of the Mi Sheberach prayer (the prayer for healing) was “the Geonic Period,” which dates between the sixth and eleventh centuries CE.
> 
> \- Persecution of Jews rose sharply in Europe during the time of the Crusades, resulting in destruction of communities and mass slaughter. These persecutions included special clothing as determined by local sumptuary law, and restricted movements within and between regions. The Jews were not formally expelled from England, however, until 1290 CE (the first European expulsion).
> 
> \- The earliest dates I’ve been able to find for the institution of identification badges for Jews outside of the Muslim world were 1215 (Spain), and 1217 (France).
> 
> \- I stole Methingau – it existed as a county within the Holy Roman Empire, but was not an an independent one after 998 CE. This way, I’m not impinging too badly on real history by messing with the line of succession.


	2. Come and Be Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Miracles like healing the sick, bringing the rain - maybe even raising the dead.” He dropped his voice low and grinned darkly, like he was telling ghost stories to a pack of squires. “I heard he travels with his brother on this very road. What say you, your Lordship?” He raised an eyebrow at Gregory, who had pushed back the fur-lined sleeves of his robe and was carving a slice out of an apple with his knife. “I think we’ve found ourselves a holy man.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by: [Come and Be Welcome](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajRR2H2D480), Heather Dale
> 
> Betaed by the incredible feebleapb and xandertheundead.

* * *

_Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire_

_Come from the fields and enter our hall_

_Come drink from the guest-cup_

_Come join in our circle_

_Come and be welcome ye bards one and all_   


**August, 1201. The south of France.**

The sounds of the company settling in for the night were as familiar and comforting to Theodore as his own breathing; the laughter of the squires about their work, the clinking of mail, the horses whickering quietly at their pasture. The heat of the day had given way to the damp chill of a late-summer evening, something the afternoon’s rains had made worse. The fire blazed in the middle of camp, casting a warm glow over the tents that circled it.

He took a pull from his wineskin, the rich burn of the spiced wine warming him through from the inside out. He put it to his lips to take another, but it was grabbed away before he could tip it up. Theodore sighed, looked up with the tolerance borne of long-suffering as his friend’s heavy arm fell around his shoulders. Gerhardt, all hair and a toothy smile, took a swig from the skin before pressing it back into his hand. He followed Theodore’s gaze across the camp, lighting on the two strangers who had stumbled out of the dark forest only a few minutes before.

"They say there's a holy pilgrim in these parts,” Gerhardt began, grabbing Theodore in a headlock. Theodore rocked with the movement, pushing him companionably in the side to force him off and away. Gerhardt laughed as he tumbled to the ground and sprawled there easily. The others joined them then, his Lordship Count Gregory; rangy, rusty-haired Barnabas; and Frederick Kneebiter.

(He was only an inch or two shorter than the rest, and he had never quite forgiven Gerhardt for the way the byname had stuck.)

Theodore half-rose in respect, then dropped back to the ground as Gregory waved him off and sat. “Continue.” Gregory stole Theodore’s wineskin, and he surrendered it without complaint. 

“They say he’s a wandering friar who can work miracles,” Gerhardt continued, saluting the others with an easy wave.

“Who says that, Gerhardt?” Theodore picked up the thread of the conversation, such as it was.

 “‘They’ again,” Barnabas snorted. “Do ‘they’ ever have names, my friend?”

Gerhardt was undeterred, leaning close to deliver his information. He nodded at the two young men across the fire, one dark and one fair.

“Miracles like healing the sick, bringing the rain - maybe even raising the dead.” He dropped his voice low and grinned darkly, like he was telling ghost stories to a pack of squires. “I heard he travels with his brother on this very road. What say you, your Lordship?” He raised an eyebrow at Gregory, who had pushed back the fur-lined sleeves of his robe and was carving a slice out of an apple with his knife. “I think we’ve found ourselves a holy man.”

Theodore followed Gerhardt’s gaze and watched them for a moment. The fair-haired one was perched on a log talking to some of the footsoldiers, his eyes wandering back to his brother every few minutes. The longer Theodore watched the more it became apparent that he was listening more than he was speaking, for all his mouth kept moving.

But the other… he was a huddled ball of misery and wet cloth, with a stubborn set to his jaw that refused to admit weakness. He had taken up a place by the fire as well, out of the path of any of the others. He watched the fire and his brother, his brother watched the camp… and Theodore watched them both.

Gregory ate the apple slice directly off the blade of his knife. “He doesn't look much like a friar to me,” he said, an edge of a sneer in his voice. “More like a drowned rat.”

Of course that would be his response. Theodore looked up at the others from where he sat. Their expressions ranged from mocking to disinterested, and he could not help but be irritated by it. As though they had not all been in need of assistance at some point in their lives! “All I see is a man,” he suggested. “Cold, wet, tired and no doubt hungry.”

"You have a woman's heart, Theodore, all soft inside,” Gregory jeered. Barnabas and Frederick snickered. “I have a nursemaid instead of a general. Shall we bring swaddling-clothes to the battlefield?”

Theodore refused to flinch; he shrugged it off and elbowed Frederick instead when he kept chuckling long after the moment was over. Frederick yelped and threw an elbow back, but Gregory stuck a leg between them before it could become more than a token spat. “Hold, idiots,” he commanded lazily.

Frederick clapped him on the shoulder companionably. Theodore schooled his expression into amused tolerance, a wry smile tangling on his lips, and waited for Gregory to finish out his orders. “Go to him, then,” was the word that came down. “Learn what you can. See if we’ve stumbled upon a good luck charm for this voyage after all.” With that and a summary wave, he was dismissed.

His façade slipped as he turned around the corner of the tent, his irritation showing at the edges. “I’d rather have a ‘woman’s heart’ than be a heartless, brainless-“ Theodore muttered darkly and seditiously. He was intercepted halfway to his tent by a shadow looming out of the darkness.

"Pay him no mind.” It was Heinrich who caught his arm, a great Teutonic bear of a man who resisted all pressures to trim the beard that billowed yellow from his cheeks and chin. He had ever been a friend, even now that he was theoretically one of the knights under Theodore’s command. “What he calls weakness, the rest of the world calls compassion. We need more leaders with a little of that."

"Our liege lord doesn’t agree with you." Theodore tipped his head toward the gathering at the great tent, not letting his eyes flicker over as well. He was high enough in Gregory’s esteem now that he could get away with a good amount, but there was such a thing as pushing his luck too far.

Heinrich tipped his hand back and forth between them, his other resting easily on the hilt of his broadsword. “The young Count has a long way to go before he is half the man his father was.” He kept his voice low, an earthy rumble that was as comforting now as it had been ten years ago when a freshly-dubbed knight had taken a nervous young squire under his wing. “He will need us as friends to continue what his father should still be here to do. In the mean time, patience.”

Theodore nodded slowly, took the moment to breathe and centre, his mood lifting at the approval returned to him in Heinrich’s eyes. “Good lad,” Heinrich murmured, then grinned. “I mean ‘good lad, _sir’_ ,” he teased, with a twinkle in his eye. “Be about your business.”

It only took a moment to collect his cloak and bowl from the saddlebags lying beside his bedroll; another wineskin, this time from Gerhardt’s tent. One last stop beside the kettle simmering over the cookfire to dip out a bowlful of stew, and he made his way back through the camp. The stranger huddled, still damp, beside the fire. The rain steamed off his robe as he sat there, feet as close to the heat as he could get them without his shoe leather shrinking and cracking. The rising vapours made him look, for a moment, like he could truly be otherworldly.

Theodore was staring and he should not; had only a moment before the pilgrim looked up and caught him at it. The pilgrim’s hair was long and curled against the back of his neck as it dried, the tendrils misbehaving and sticking up in all directions. His close-cropped beard suited him, emphasized the line of his jaw and contrasted darkly against his skin. His lower lip was full and pouting slightly, begging to be kissed, or bitten until his skin flushed red-

Those were thoughts far more dangerous even than his grumbles about the Count, and Theodore pushed them _back_ and _away_ and _down._ And that, of course, was the moment the pilgrim looked up and saw him standing there.

He had beautiful eyes. Honey-brown and framed by dark lashes, but wary and suspicious, as though he had seen Theodore’s sinful fantasies.

That was foolish. No man could read another’s mind.

“Here-“ He crossed the final steps between them and held out the full bowl. The scent of the stew rose from it, rich and thick and warm; not the sort of thing that would be welcome on a summer’s day, but the evenings this time of year were cold.

“You look as though you could use a hot meal,” he continued. The pilgrim was looking up at him with wary eyes, something else unreadable there. Of course; Theodore was a stranger, and he was tall enough that even standing there could be read as looming. He sat down on the log beside him instead, not waiting for invitation or permission. He held the bowl out until the pilgrim was forced to take it.

“And something to wear. At least until your robe has a chance to dry.” The brother was already out of his, hanging it on a tree branch near the fire, his hose and tunic surprisingly well-made for a pair of pilgrims travelling without retinue. There _was_ more to these two than first appeared. Theodore laid his cloak between them on the log, the thick brown wool soft from felting and inviting to the touch. “Take it. At least for tonight.”

The pilgrim frowned and shook his head, black stands clinging to the side of his neck. He ran a hand through his hair to unstick it, looking unaware of his own motion. “No thank you, m'lord,” he replied politely, though the half-breath’s pause before ‘m’lord’ was telling. His accent was neither French nor Burgundian; English?  

"Your pious humility doesn't need to extend to death from the ague,” Theodore pointed out,  “and I have another. Take it. My name is Theodore,” he added on impulse. He braced his arms on the log and stretched his legs out toward the fire, his leather riding boots silhouetted darkly against the light.

There was another pause, and when he looked back the pilgrim was watching him, studying him, eyes travelling over the lines of his face, his hair, the heraldry on the back of his surcote. Their eyes met and held, and there was something in the depths that made Theodore’s breath catch, a spark of blue that ignited and then faded away. Had it been real or only his imagination?

"William,” the pilgrim stammered after a moment. “My name is William. My brother is Thomas.” The act of speaking seemed to break some kind of dam with him and the tension in his arms began to subside. He scrubbed the palms of his hands against his knees, then blinked down at the wet fabric in disgust. “Thank you. For the meal, I mean, and the cloak. You weren’t obliged to do that.”

“No obligation, though the stew will get cold if you stare at it rather than eat,” Theodore pointed out with a half-smile. “Is it Brother William, or Father?” He had no sign of a tonsure, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Neither. It’s just William.” William fumbled in his bag for a moment, seemingly all thumbs and the bowl coming close to tipping twice. Theodore caught it just as it began to go over, his fingers brushing William’s as he did. There was that spark again, William’s skin warm against his, hints of calluses on the side of his fingers, and a sudden awareness of the heat of this body next to his. He managed to keep the bowl balanced in his hands despite the unsteadiness in his chest. William actually laughed, a quick, bright and nervous sound, but his eyes were pleased.

“You’ve got it backwards,” Theodore said solemnly. “The stew is for eating. The _cloak_ is for wearing.”

And there was a real laugh, startled and sublime. William’s face changed when he relaxed, the hard lines of mistrust fading for a moment. Theodore wanted to see that look in his eyes again, and often.

William’s gaze darted over Theodore’s shoulder then, and his smile faded a little; Theodore turned to see Thomas watching them.

The moment was gone.

William left Theodore holding the bowl for a moment while he stripped off his sodden robe. His knee-length tunic underneath was only barely damp, a dark madder-red that matched his hose. Those were wet and spotted with mud, and they clung to his calves in a way that should not  _must not_ \- be as distracting as it was.

Theodore signaled and one of the boys ran up to take the robe. He hung it over a branch to dry along with others, and William shrugged the dry cloak over his shoulders. His shivering stopped after a moment and Theodore sat in silence while he ate. How much of what Gerhardt had said could possibly be true? If William were a miracle worker or a saint, why would he not ask for fair skies and calm weather during his travels? It was the sort of thing Theodore could imagine himself asking for, especially if he had a company following him. Think of it; the ability to make the march clear, to lose no-one to bogs or stagnant water, or cold.  

It was every commander’s dream. Or if it wasn’t, it should be.

William set his bowl aside and Theodore lifted the wineskin in invitation. “Assuming that you drink, of course. Unless you’ve taken vows against it?” There was no telling what might set a pilgrim on the road, or what fasts they might include with their penitential oaths.

“I drink.” He still looked at Theodore with a level of mistrust though, and didn’t reach for the skin. He moistened his lower lip and the firelight caught the gleam, and perhaps it was time for Theodore to reconsider what he was doing before he found himself committing more sins than he could make penance for in a lifetime.

He unstopped the wineskin and drank from it himself, not looking away from William’s eyes. He wiped the spout with his hand and held it out again. _See? No poison._

William took it and he placed his mouth where Theodore’s had been. He closed his eyes when he drank, tilting his head up, baring his throat to view. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the firelight licking golden off the column of skin.

Theodore breathed out, ragged and broken, and forced his eyes away. Thomas was crossing to join them, half-eaten chunk of bread and cheese in his hand, and the intrusion was almost a relief. He nodded to William’s brother – no, twin, he had to be – and bade him sit. When William passed the wineskin back, he handed it to Thomas and received a nod and glimmer of a smile in return. He did not miss how Thomas sat, on the ground at William’s feet, his crossed knees extending into the space between them.

“Tell me,” Theodore began, once Thomas had satisfied his thirst and passed the skin back to him again. “Where are you bound for? Do you intend to walk all the way to Rome?” He took a drink and the heat that coiled low in his gut was enough to mask anything else that might be trembling there.

_Good._

Thomas shook his head, the easy slump of his body somehow seeming unreal. Maybe it was the way his gaze kept flickering about between their faces, never resting on any one for long, or the unconscious drumming of his fingers against his thigh. It was William who answered, his fingers coiling in the hem of his borrowed cloak. “We go to the shrine of the Virgin in Siena; a week or so shorter of a walk.”

“Not so you’d know it,” Thomas snorted from below, and William looked at him with fond exasperation. “What is one more week, after all, when it’s three months there and three months back again?”

“Plus the winter,” Theodore added, glancing between them. “Surely you don’t intend to return this way in the winter months. You would never make it home alive. If I may ask, where is home for you?”

There was a pause, so brief that he thought perhaps he had imagined it, then William spoke again. “London. Will that be a problem for your lord?”

“The Holy Roman Emperor has no quarrels with King John,” Theodore answered carefully. The tides of these things were always shifting, of course, and the technicalities with the current prince and the regent and all such issues of the court were hardly any business of his. But there was no open war at the moment, which was about all anyone could reasonably desire. “Nor does the Count of Methingau.”

“Then we shall get along famously,” Thomas said, and William’s toe caught him just below the shoulder. He let out a huff of air and shot a glare at his brother, and Theodore bent his head to hide the grin. “What about you, Sir Knight?” Thomas asked, rubbing his side with an exaggerated gesture. Every word out of his mouth sounded like a challenge. “Where does this fine company go?”

That was no secret, certainly. “We make for Chasteaux,” Theodore answered. “To meet Boniface and the French coming south from Soissons. Once we are assembled, we make our way to the ships at Venice. From there, we are bound for the Holy Land.”

And this time he was watching for it; he did not miss the shadow that clouded William’s face at the mention. Perhaps he was regretting his vows for Siena now that there was a proper Crusade on the march? Surely whatever he was seeking at the shrine, he would find triple that in the sacred walls of Jerusalem itself.

“Come with us,” Theodore offered, with a quick glance over his shoulder at Gregory sitting with the others. Thomas and William looked hesitant both, and he pushed on. “The roads aren’t safe for two men travelling alone. We can take you as far as Piacenza before we part company.”

Some silent conversation passed between the brothers, William’s face open and pleading, Thomas’ perplexed.

Theodore wanted to hold his breath. He took another drink instead.

He could not say why it was so important that they not part yet – rather, he could _think_ it, but never, ever admit it...  But it was more than base desire to keep William’s company. There was something about him, a power that thrummed deep beneath the skin and flickered in the depths of his eyes. Both twins had the eyes of older men, ancient souls peering out of young men’s faces.

Gregory had asked him to watch for signs and omens. Surely the strange appearance of these odd  twins was exactly that.

Thomas shrugged and relented with a small huff, ending their wordless conversation. “We appear to be travelling on the same road,” he said, and William made a faint and anxious smile. “We would be hard-pressed to avoid you.”

“Good.” A thrill swept through him then, one that did not bear closer examination. “I’ll inform his Lordship.” Theodore pushed against the log and levered himself easily to his feet, sweeping his hands over the length of his surcote to let it lie flat. William began to stand as well, to peel the cloak from around his shoulders, and Theodore waved him off. “Keep it for tonight; you’ll need something dry to guard you against the damp earth. Unless you’ve a tent packed into one of those satchels,” he teased gently, hoping to find that smile again.

“Yes, my blessed bag with the power of holding,” William replied, his face utterly still and serious. He patted the leather affectionately. “I had it off a monk in Lyons who swore that it contained not only a tent but a kitchen and privy as well.”

There was a pause.

Theodore blinked, unsure, then the light in the back of those dark brown eyes gave William away. The three of them burst out laughing, Thomas’ chuckle more pointed than the others. “He had you for a moment,” Thomas pointed out unnecessarily, but Theodore could not bring himself to take offense.

“Never,” Theodore insisted instead, shaking his head, which only made William laugh more.

“Theodore!” The call came from across the fire, and the laughter died. When he looked, Gregory was beckoning him over.

He was loathe to go, to walk away from this circle of growing comfort and easy amiability to return to Gregory and the rest of his men. But he had his duty, and lingering here with the twins too long would cause more problems for all of them than it would solve.

“I’ll leave you to your meal, then,” he nodded in respect and turned to go.

The weight of at least three pairs of eyes sat on him as he crossed the camp back to the great tent. But there was only one that he cared to think about. Tomorrow would come, and another tomorrow, and he would have time to learn more about the twins, about William; to engage him in conversation, earn his trust and watch him unfold, smile, lose the wariness that made him seem half-wild.

They could be great friends, of that he was certain. That would have to be enough.

Perhaps inviting them along had not been one of his better ideas.

He could not find the strength within him to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “The ague” is an archaic term originally from Old French for an illness that came with a high fever. It became used for malaria specifically in the sixteenth century before passing out of use almost entirely in the nineteenth.
> 
> * “Homage” was a legal provision of the medieval feudal system, carried out through public ceremony. A vassal who swore homage to a lord owed him military service (or to send men in lieu of service himself), as well as his permanent loyalty. In return, the liege-lord promised protection and support. Fealty was a lesser version of homage, usually performed through an intermediary of the court, and not requiring military service. Both required an oath of fealty.
> 
> An example of a standardized form of fealty oath, from 10th century England:
> 
> Form of fealty in the Laws of Alfred, Guthrum, and Edward the Elder, from Thatcher: The Library of Original Sources, Vol. IV: The Early Medieval World
> 
> Thus shall a man swear fealty oaths.
> 
> By the Lord, before whom this relic is holy, I will be to ____ faithful and true, and love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns, according to God's law, and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to him; on condition that he keep me as I am willing to deserve, and all that fulfil that our agreement was, when I to him submitted and chose his will.
> 
> All of Gregory’s knights are his vassals, and have sworn homage to him through similar words. The squires and footsoldiers would be in fealty to Gregory by association, having sworn oaths of fealty to their particular knights and commanders.
> 
> You could swear fealty to multiple lords (and hope they never disagree), but homage to only one.
> 
> It was widely understood that breaking an oath of fealty or homage would result in death, either from God’s hand or the hand of one’s former liege. They could, however, be mutually dissolved and the vassal released from service.


End file.
